The initial, over-the-phone diagnosis by Todd Edelson, my physical therapist, while I was standing in the middle of the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah, was of some kind of rotator cuff tear. Two sets of X-rays and MRI's later, it was confirmed. I tore up three of the four tendons that make up the rotator cuff. That, on top of the torn labrum I was already dealing with made for a pretty useless right shoulder.
Things would have been easier to deal with had I gone right into surgery after the crash. However, I first had to deal with getting back to the East Coast and meeting with my orthopedist, Steve Robbins. Apart from the examinations and MRI's, the big challenge was fitting into Steve's very busy schedule. I really liked Steve (he'd previously repaired my son Jesse's torn rotator cuff as well -- a result of an ugly crash and burn while trying to conquer the half-pipe up at Stratton Mountain) so I was prepared to wait for my turn in his crowded surgical and personal calendars (both a vacation as well as a college tour with his son). Better, I thought, to have a well-rested surgeon operating on me.
My crash ten days into that first leg of my cross-country adventure was in the middle of June. Surgery wasn't until the end of July.
The actual diagnosis and follow-on recommendations were pretty interesting. Standing there in his examination room, I handed Steve my test results. He slid the MRI film up into the light box, taking his time to examine the internal carnage. After sufficient time, he turned his head over his shoulder, looked me square in the eyes and said, "you know you're fucked, right?" I asked if that was the official diagnostic terminology for a rotator cuff tear. He said it looked like a bomb went off inside my shoulder.
Steve then gave me two choices. Knowing my inclinations towards most things sporting, including soccer, golf, tennis, baseball and, oh yeah, cycling, he told me the options were for him either to go in arthroscopically and do a basic tear repair, or, as he put it, "get all medieval in there" and perform more extensive and invasive surgery. The former, he told me, would be less painful and have a shorter recovery time, but would probably only give me about a 40% chance for full performance recovery. The latter would be more painful and include much more internal repairing. And it would require a much longer recovery period, maybe up to six-to-nine months. And drugs! But, he insisted, it'd be much more likely that I'd enjoy a complete recovery.
I chose the more intense surgery. And the Vicodin. (Ask any of my Sudler colleagues how much I enjoyed the Vicodin while working. It turns out I don't remember much. Something about retrograde amnesia. But they tell me I did fine during my presentations.)
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| while i was recovering from my surgery, lori and michael were riding the north fork century. maybe a case of sympatico or just bad luck but lori crashed at the 99-mile mark and suffered wrist damage (now healed). what a pair! |
The rest of the summer was a blur. No tennis, no softball, no cycling. And, through the middle of September, my right arm was in a sling. Going into the fall, that also meant no platform tennis. Air travel was such a joy in a sling, especially with carry-on luggage. And I learned to do everything left-handed. Everything! (I'll leave it to you to figure that out.)
As the summer wore on, I began increasingly feeling sorry for myself. Sitting on the sidelines watching friends cycling or playing baseball or platform tennis. And while I was trying to compensate by doing a lot more walking and hiking, it wasn't the same. So I did what I always do in those situations. I ate. And ate. Needless to say, I kind of overdid it.
The Fall was the first time I could finally start the process of getting back into the gym as well as physical therapy. And I could finally deal with all the extra weight I'd gained over the past three months. It was amazing what limited movement I had in my right shoulder. The pain from the surgery was long gone. Now a new pain was taking it's place. And not a severe or sharp pain, but rather the kind of dull but demonstrable pain that made me flinch for fear that I was doing more damage or re-injuring what had just been repaired. It was so odd to worry about doing a push-up or a bench press. Even weirder to worry just about raising my right arm up to brush my teeth or comb my hair. Or trying to put my arm into a jacket sleeve. Everything felt like it was tearing from the inside. But, of course, it wasn't.
By the end of October, as I was progressing nicely with my healing and with my PT, I got the green light to get back on the bike. Nothing fancy, just to get started again. November 2nd was my first time back since my crash. It was a beautiful warm and sunny day and everything seemed in place to make this a good day to push the restart button.
Apart from the odd feeling of sitting on my bike again, my first instinct was just to take off and start riding. That lasted for about 300 feet. Suddenly, I was overcome by a totally new sensation. Fear. And it was a kind of fear I'd never experienced before. Even though I was riding at a comparatively slow pace, every twig or leaf on the road surface freaked me out as I began reliving the crash. Anything other than an absolutely smooth bit of road surface caused me to worry about my tires sliding out from under me again. It really wigged me out. Not a paralyzing fear, but not a good feeling either. Still, I kept pedaling.
That strange and fearful sensation lasted for about five miles after which I think I was able to overcome it and get back to thinking about riding, not thinking about falling. The next five miles seemed as though I was getting back into my normal mindset. Not sure how much of that was my rational lobe overcoming my irrational, emotional lobe but, whatever it was, it was a good thing to get past.
All in all, I was only planning on doing about a ten-mile ride for my first go. At the ten-mile mark, feeling great and after having been sitting on my ass for the better part of five months, I decided to extend the ride a bit more. That turned into a 19-mile ride. I might actually have gone farther but, at around the 15-mile mark, my shoulder reminded me that I was still not totally out of the healing process. Not a deep throbbing pain, but enough to let me know that I'd done enough for my first day back. The rest of the four miles was also a reminder that I needed to build back all the arm and leg strength I'd lost while not riding. You forget how much weight is put on your arms while you're riding, not just on your butt or on your legs. While my legs still felt strong, my right arm and shoulder were sapped of strength.
While the rest of my rides last year were of a similar nature, and while I overcame that initial shock of fear, a different kind of sensation has remained with me every since. It only occurs when I'm taking a long or steep downhill descent. Similar to that sense of fear about falling, I am oh so conscious of a new discomfort that I have taking downhill runs. In the past, it wouldn't be unusual for me to take a long downhill run at speeds of up to the high 30's, maybe even topping out at 40 miles per hour. I was never the daredevil who would take those runs at speeds higher than 40, although I've been passed many times by fellow riders who are flat out flying down the hill. Some I've spoken to afterwards say they were clocking in at over 50 miles per hour. That's road paste territory for me so I'm not inclined to venture there. But now, even hitting 30 miles per hour hasn't happened once during all my training rides, even with some very steep downhill runs. Tops, I'm doing 27 or 28 miles per hour. And both hands are firmly wrapped around my brake hoods. Actually gripping them a bit too firmly.
While I thought the crash was truly behind me, it's still there. It's still a vision I see when I'm taking a corner at what would normally have been a high speed. Or when I'm on a dowhhill run and the road surface is very choppy. I'm always braking more. And sooner. And my average speeds are way down from last year. The shoulder is healing nicely. Now all I have to do is get my brain to cooperate.
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